


The Only Proof That I Need is You

by goldenheadfreckledheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, lets be real: fluff and not much else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:05:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4281393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/pseuds/goldenheadfreckledheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of tumblr drabbles/prompt fills. Mostly fluff, not much else.</p><p>Work title from Proof by Paramore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At a Bookstore, Not a Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: We don’t really know each other but this guy is trying really hard to get in my pants and I’m trying to send you telepathic messages to come save me but you keep missing eye contact with me please look at me + bellarke.
> 
> I’d definitely seen this done for bellarke before, so I’m went with awkward!bellamy, cause why the hell not.
> 
> (Sorry for the awful title. It's late and I literally can't think of anything else.)

Clarke is getting hit on at a bookstore. A  _bookstore._  Like, sure, she might expect it at a bar, but she’s not really down for flirting when she’s just trying to find a story to drown herself in. And she really does need a good book. It’s been a rough week in the ER; the kind that requires non-stop diligence and the delivering of more bad news than she’d prefer to give.

All she wants to do is lose herself in a world that isn’t this one. Instead, she’s humoring a boy in a bookstore just for the sake of being polite.

It  _is_  flattering, the flirting, and he’s cute enough; the shaggy brown hair that falls past his ears isn’t necessarily working for her, but it doesn’t hurt either.

The problem is he’s just kind of  _boring._ He opens with “Jane Austen huh?” and from there it devolves to repetitive questions about what she thinks of different Austen novels, which, granted, is fun at first, but she’s more introverted than extroverted, and spewing her opinions without any reciprocation or, really, much response of any kind, isn’t actually that interesting. Hell, she’d settle for someone who disagreed with everything she said.

He’s moved on to asking, “So what’s on your mind today?” (Which she tries not to be snobby about, but forced conversation is really  _not fun._ When a conversation is dead, just let it die, right?) when she notices another guy at the end of the aisle.

He must have been there for a while, too, if the book in his hands, open to almost to the center seam, is any indication. And because she’s already in a kind of jerk-ish, irritated mood, she doesn’t deny herself that this dark haired stranger is  _much_ more attractive than the one she’s talking too. She can just make out a smattering of freckles that fall across his nose and cheekbones.

She does feel a little guilt when she tries to catch his eye, but it ends up being a fruitless effort seeing as he’s completely absorbed in the book. She feels a pang of jealousy at the look of concentration on his face— _that should be her right now—_ as she refocuses on conversation at hand.

When her less-than-stellar conversation partner asks about her plans for the rest of the night, she lays the hints on thick.

“Honestly, I’m just going to find a good book and hang out at home. It’s been a long week.” If her words are little louder than necessary as she glances toward the end of the aisle again, who can really blame her?

She thinks she finally sees the dark haired man look up just as she’s turning back to the man in front of her, who seems hardly phased by her words.

“Well, if you’re up to it, maybe you’d like to…” his words trail off just as she feels a hand on her shoulder. She turns, surprised, to find the man from the end of the aisle standing beside her, and  _wow those freckles look even better close up._

“Excuse me,” his voice is deep and she just inexplicably  _likes_  it. “I um, work here?” he says it like he’s not quite sure, but his next words are more assertive, “I overheard you talking and I think you might be interested in some of the new historical fiction we’ve just got in. I can show you if you’d like?”

She breathes a sigh of relief and casts him a bright smile, “That’d be great!” And really, it does sound good, even if all she really wanted was to remove herself from the dry conversation.

“See you around!” she says to the other man, fostering only a tiny amount of guilt for the complete lack of sincerity behind her words.

She follows her dark haired savior around the corner and down a couple rows of shelves where he stops in front of a selection of books, one hand in his pocket, the other still holding the book he’d been devouring.

“So, uh, yeah,” he gestures to the shelf, “There’s a lot of good stuff here. I’m partial the Roman stuff, but that’s just me.”

She’s about to respond, but he’s speaking again before she can.

“I also feel like I should tell you that I don’t actually work here,” his hand pushes back through his curly hair, “But you kind of looked like you wanted out of that conversation. And these booksreally  _are_  good, but I—um, yeah, I’m sorry if I overstepped…”

She doesn’t try to keep the grin from her face, but she does manage to suppress the urge to hug him.

“No, it’s okay! Better than okay, actually,” she says, dropping her eyes to her hands, tangled together in front of her, “I was kind of hoping someone would save me from that conversation, to be honest.”

When she looks back up at him, she thinks he’s blushing. And she  _knows_  that it’s probably the best thing she’s ever seen.

“Well, uh,” he lets out what she thinks is a relieved laugh, “you’re welcome then…” he pauses.

“Clarke,” she supplies.

“Clarke,” he repeats, holding out his hand, “I’m Bellamy.”

“Nice to meet you Bellamy,” she says, placing her hand in his larger one, a giddy grin still on her face, “Now tell me what the best Roman historical fiction is, ‘cause I want in on this.”

His responding smile is wide as he delves into his favorites.

When he asks her out to coffee after she’s chosen a book, she finds herself agreeing immediately, because somehow talking with him is an even better cure for a hard week than a good book–and that’s saying something.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)!


	2. At a Bookstore, Not a Bar Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy's POV

Bellamy’s halfway through a reread of Crusader (by Edward Bloor, a childhood favorite of his) when he notices that he’s no longer the only person in that particular aisle of shelves.

He doesn’t usually have spare time to sit around in bookshops, but he doesn’t have work ‘til 4 today and he was ready to lose his mind sitting in his apartment by himself all day.

He’s vaguely aware of the couple’s conversation for a few minutes before he actually takes notice of them. He only means to glance at them quickly—he hears something about Pride and Prejudice, which has always been a favorite of his, no matter how his sister teases him about it—but something about the blonde girl has his gaze lingering long enough to notice how  _uncomfortable_ she looks.

Somehow he can’t quite get lost in the book again after that. Each time he stares down at the words, something she says manages to catch his interest. She’s got an interesting take on the character of Lydia Bennet and he finds himself wanting to talk to her about it, maybe push back on a couple of the points he doesn’t quite agree with. The guy she’s talking to—it seems unlikely he’s her boyfriend now—hardly replies to each of her articulate responses before he pushes on to another question, like he’s searching desperately for some common ground where he can muster a similarly deep response.

Somehow, Bellamy doubts he’s going to find it. He’s also not particularly sure why he feels a small amount of animosity toward this guy he’s never spoken to. That feeling, combined with the look of discomfort that hasn’t seemed to leave her face for the duration of the conversation has him wanting to interrupt.  _Which would be a bad idea. Definitely._

Her next words are a little louder, “Honestly, I’m just going to find a good book and hang out at home. It’s been a long week.”

The meaning behind her words is clear to him;  _I’m done with this conversation._ When he looks over again, he swears he just misses meeting her eyes.

Without really knowing what’s driving him, and ignoring his thoughts from just seconds earlier, he’s closing the book and striding over to them.

The poor conversationalist’s offer of…he’s not sure what, trails off when he sees him. Bellamy places his hand on the girls shoulder. ( _Why?_ he asks himself mentally, _What the hell am I doing?_ He wouldn’t really blame her if she punched him in the face.) He’s pretty sure this is a horrible plan.

“Excuse me. I um, work here?” he mentally cringes,  _way to be convincing_ , and forces his voice to cooperate as he goes on, “I overheard you talking and I think you might be interested in some of the new historical fiction we’ve just got in. I can show you if you’d like?”

Her responding smile is bright and  _beautiful_  and he thinks maybe he hasn’t misread the signals as badly as he thought.

“That’d be great!” she says, turning to follow him before tossing back a quick, “See you around!” that he can’t help noticing doesn’t seem entirely sincere. He’s half smiling as he leads her to the historical fiction section—he’s here often enough to know where things are, particularly his favorite genres—until he realizes he should probably come clean about the whole I-work-here thing.

“So, uh, yeah,” he says when they get there, “There’s a lot of good stuff here. I’m partial the Roman stuff, but that’s just me.” The next words tumble out of his mouth and he kind of just hopes for the best, “I also feel like I should tell you that I don’t actually work here, but you kind of looked like you wanted out of that conversation. And these books really  _are_ good, but I—um, yeah, I’m sorry if I overstepped…”

He waits for her inevitable “what a creep” or maybe just “what the hell?” and really he’s never necessarily been  _bad_  at talking to girls, so he doesn’t understand why he’s being so weird now.

“No, that’s okay! Better than okay, actually,” she says brightly, then looks down at her hands, “I was kind of hoping someone would save me from that conversation, to be honest.” He’s not sure what alternate universe he’s dropped into where this situation has somehow  _not_  become a disaster, but it’s probably the best thing that’s happened to him in a while.

They make their introductions—she’s Clarke, an unusual name for an unusual situation—and then he dives into his favorite historical fiction. As he talks she seems legitimately interested, which isn’t so much surprising as it is unexpected. Most people aren’t super into history, he can accept that, but her rapt attention has him even more excited about than he usually is and he’s  _really_  glad he decided to come into the bookstore today.

Once she makes her selection (a book he cited as one of his favorites—he might be a little smug about that), he walks with her up to the register where she slips Crusader out of his hand and places it on the counter with her book while they wait for the cashier.

“I’m buying this for you,” she says before he can even ask what she’s doing, “As thanks for saving me from the worst conversation ever.”

He almost tries to protest, but something in her expression tells him that won’t go so well for him.

“Alright, fine,” he says, “But only if you let me treat you to coffee?” He feels a little dumb asking, they’ve barely been talking for ten minutes, but screw it, she’s captivating, and he likes being around her.

She doesn’t even hesitate before saying yes, and it does good things for his ego.

When they’re at the coffee shop, one a few blocks down that she claims as her favorite, he brings up her analysis of Lydia Bennet—and in doing so, kind of admits to eavesdropping, but he doesn’t think she minds-–and argues against a couple of her points.

Clarke comes back at him with ferocity, and some impressively cited quotes, but he still doesn’t quite believe that the youngest Bennet sister is the glue that binds the story of Pride and Prejudice together.

“Without Lydia, there  _is no story_ ,” she argues, “Darcy would never have had to save her, and Elizabeth’s feelings would never have changed.”

“You don’t think things would have worked out otherwise? That’s not a very romantic outlook.” His voice is serious but it’s hard to keep the smile off his face, because it’s  _fun_  to debate with her.

“Sure, in  _real life_  it might have worked that way. But it’s a novel; crazy circumstances and chance developments are what  _make_  it romantic,” she’s grinning too, “It wouldn’t be fun if Lizzy was just like, ‘Alright, you’re not as bad as I thought, let’s make out.’”

He laughs out loud and is thinking that he could come to be really far gone for this girl when she interrupts his thoughts.

“Hey, wait!” her sudden outburst is paired with the perplexed look on her face, “I re-payed  _you_  by buying your book. But now you just bought me coffee. How is that fair? We’re not even anymore.”

He responds with, “You could buy me dinner and then we could be even,” because apparently he’s  _already_  really far gone for this girl.

She just smiles and says, “Sounds fair, then you can buy me dessert and we can be uneven all over again.”

He does. And then of course she has to buy him lunch. They argue the pros and cons of twisting facts to make historical fiction and genres like steampunk work, and he’s pretty sure he’s in love with her.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)!


	3. I Don't Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: We were both drunk when you proposed to me and I accidentally posted about it across social media so now we’re hungover and trying to figure out this mess bc we’re not even dating.

_Clarke Griffin is engaged to Bellamy Blake._ –Facebook status, posted 2:34 AM, 48 likes, 10 comments.

Waking up with a hangover is bad enough. Add to that 58 notifications about her supposed engagement to her sworn nemesis and she’s not sure which gods she’s offended, but they must be  _pissed._

Okay, so Bellamy isn’t quite her  _nemesis._  That might be a little overdramatic. They do argue about almost everything and have been known to go out of their way to enroll in the same lectures and discussions just so they can show each other up, but they don’t necessarily  _hate_  each other.

The fact that he’s currently passed out on her couch and the lack of sharpie drawings on his face is testament to that. (It might also be testament to the fact that Clarke’s been half in love with him for the last year, but she’ll  _ruin_  you if you even suggest it. She has her ways.)

She makes a pot of coffee, partly because she’d like to put off dealing with the whole engagement thing and partly because she can’t function without coffee on a normal day and a hangover makes it about a thousand times more necessary. She pours a cup for Bellamy too and places it on the coffee table next to the couch before nudging his knee with her foot.

“Hey, wake up,” she nudges a little harder and he groans, “We need to talk about our engagement. And, you know, the fact that I don’t remember it.”

“What,” he says, pushing himself slowly upright and reaching blindly for the coffee, “are you talking about.” It’s more a statement than a question.

She responds by shoving her phone into his line of sight. He squints at it for a moment and eventually seems able to read it.

“Oh, congrats to us I guess?”

Clarke sighs and flops down next to him, scrolling through the comments. She hasn’t dared touch them until now.

“Half of the comments are from our friends…various forms of ‘I knew it’ and ‘about time’,” she rolls her eyes, “Raven, Jasper, Monty, Octavia…even Miller.”

“Damn,” Bellamy rubs his eyes, “They’re getting to him.”

It’s true. As Bellamy and Clarke have started hanging out more often—sometimes to study and toss insults back and forth, mostly to irritate each other in other ways—their friend groups have become integrated as well.

Well, Clarke’s friend group and Bellamy’s  _one_  friend. Who’s also his roommate. It’s one of Clarke’s favorite topics for insult ammunition.

Then there’s Maya, more of an acquaintance than a friend. Clarke reads her comment out loud; “Oh, I didn’t even know you guys were dating! Congratulations!”

The last comment is from her mother and it reads only ‘Please call me.’

She groans and lets her head loll back against the sofa, deliberately not looking at Bellamy because she knows that his current state—hair mussed, eyes still sleepy—is kind of her weakness. This might not be the first time she’s let him crash on her couch.

Last night had been particularly crazy. Clarke had naively volunteered her apartment for the group’s end-of-sophomore-year party, which ended up being more like end-of-sophomore-year-getting-smashed-and-playing-video-games. Now her place was a mess and she was apparently engaged.

“Do you remember how this happened?” she asks, eyes still staring at the ceiling.

“My guess is I beat you at Kirby Air-Ride and this was the terms of your loss.”

“Fuck you, I’m awesome at Air-Ride.”

The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that ‘best friend’ is probably a better label for him than ‘nemesis’.

“And hey!” she says, “How do you know  _you_  didn’t lose and this was the terms of _your_  loss?”

There’s smugness in his voice when he responds, “It’s posted on your page, not mine.”

She has to concede to that, “Well it came back to bite us both in the ass, so I guess we’re even.”

He just hums in response and they sit in silence, sipping at their coffee.

“I don’t mind,” he says after a while.

“What?”

“I don’t mind,” he repeats. When she meets his eyes, he doesn’t look away, “There are worse things being engaged to you on facebook.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. Which it kind of is. She’s not breathing.

He drops his gaze to his coffee when she doesn’t say anything and she gets a really dumb idea.

She lets out the breath she was holding, “Are there also worse things than me asking you out?”

The grin he gives her is genuine, and kind of shy, and it has her heart flipping in her chest, “Definitely.”

She sets down her coffee and pulls his from his hands before pressing her lips to his. It’s not perfect, she’s still got a headache from the hangover and expects he does too, but as his hands settle at her waist and her arms encircle his neck, she decides its close enough.

(Bonus: Her relationship status doesn’t change for a few years, and when it does, it’s from ‘engaged’ to ‘married’.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)?


	4. Reunions and Explosions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday drabble for mayavie on tumblr. Inspired by these two prompts:
> 
> “I have to tell you something really important if I don’t tell you now I will never get the chance. I lo—” [explosion] 
> 
> +
> 
> “Don’t die on me oh God please don’t die on me stay with me look at me look at me I’m right here you’re gonna be fine oh God please don’t die on me I s2g if you die I’ll kill you” 
> 
> Canon compliant, but blatantly shippy. Obviously. I'm not really sure if I like how it turned out, but regardless, enjoy!

 

Clarke doesn’t go back to Mount Weather. Or to the bunker. There are too many memories in both those places. Instead she builds her own shelter and makes herself self-sufficient—although she does break down and trade with a nearby grounder tribe from time to time.

It’s on her way back from one of those trades that she sees Bellamy for the first time in months.

Her first response is detached, emotionless; His hair is shorter, but it still hangs down over his forehead, curling in the humidity. He looks healthy, and his clothes are in good shape—although she can see a few patches here and there. There’s a backpack slung over his shoulder and a spear in his hand, so he must be hunting, but apparently they still can’t spare many bullets.

Then the realization that  _Bellamy’s here_  slams into her chest, and she’s awash with emotions; Regret, for having left in the first place. Gratitude, that he let her go, understood her when no one else did. Joy, because it’s  _Bellamy_  and she’s _missed_ him. And something else maybe, that she doesn’t know how to categorize.

He’s surveying the area and finally notices her where she’s stopped on top of a tree root, frozen there since she noticed him moments earlier.

“Clarke.” Her name from his lips is quiet, but very clear, and there’s a hint of a question in it.

She’s about to respond, but he cuts her off.

“I—just. Let me say something first, alright?” his voice is low and there’s pain there that makes her heart ache, “I don’t want you to think I’m saying this to convince you to come back. It’s just something I need to say.”

She nods silently and she thinks his mouth almost quirks to a smile before it falls again.

“When you left…it was hard. We all understood that you did what you needed to do, but it was still…hard.”

She gets the feeling he might be speaking more for himself than for the others.

“I tried to hate you for a while,” that stings, but she hadn’t expected anything else, “but I couldn’t.”

When he looks back up at her, his eyes are full of fire. He takes a step forward.

“I couldn’t because…Clarke, I lo—”, she sees the rudimentary grounder landmine just before his foot touches it and her warning rings out far too late.

The explosion rings in her eardrums and her heart is beating so fast she thinks it might burst,  _bellamybellamybellamybellamybellamybellamy._

She’s already running toward him before the smoke clears, and when it does all she can register at first is  _red_. She kneels down beside him, her feet slipping in the mud, turned a deep maroon where it mixes with his blood.

She forces back the panicked emotions to take stock, ignoring the blood that coats her hands:  _one deep gash to the left leg, some kind of chest wound, possibly non-fatal. Possibly._

“Bellamy!” her voice is strained and she hardly recognizes it as her own, “Bellamy, stay with me.”

His eyes begin to droop as she tears a strip of fabric from his shirt to wrap his leg.

“Bellamy, I swear to god, do  _not_  die on me.” Tears begin to fall from her eyes at some point. She doesn’t have time to wipe them away.

When she’s done the best that she can, she somehow manages to get him upright, though he’s hardly half conscious, and drapes his arm over her shoulders, pulling him forward one step at a time. The whole time a mantra running through her mind:  _don’t let him die, please don’t let him die._

She makes it back to the copse of trees she calls her home and nearly collapses from exhaustion after laying him on her makeshift bed.

Her string of dialogue has turned progressively more irritated and desperate, “I swear—only  _you_ would get yourself blown up–,” she checks the bandage that spans the upper part of his chest, “—the damn  _first time_  I see you again.”

“If you die on me, I’m going to  _kill_  you,” she can’t keep the sobs from her voice as she settles down on the tree stump beside him, her hands outstretched to hold one of his.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up, it’s dark and he doesn’t know where he is. He’s lying on…something. There’s constant pain in his leg and chest, and one hand is warmer than the other.

With effort, he raises his head a few inches to see blonde hair spilling over taught shoulders and the memories come pouring back; the rush of seeing her again, the fear of saying what he needed to say, and then…pain.

One of her hands clasps his and the other is pillowing her head where it’s rested against the bed. Her eyes are closed, but he doesn’t think she’s sleeping.

When he exhales in relief—some combination of she’s-here-and-I’m-not-dead—her eyelids flutter open and her gaze meets his unflinchingly.

After a long moment, a small smile forms on her face and she presses a kiss to the hand still clasped in hers.

“I probably love you too,” she says. Then, after a second, “Please don’t die while I’m trying to figure it out.”

There’s a slow grin on his face as he gives in to his heavy eyelids, “I’m working on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for Bellamyblakesarmy on tumblr: “you work at a coffee shop and are the worst barista I’ve ever seen but you’re really cute and i know you’re just doing this job to pay off college BUT CAN U AT LEAST GET MY COFFEE RIGHT OR ASK ME OUT ON A DATE?!”

When a new coffee shop opens up near Clarke’s apartment, she’s ridiculously excited: Half because the med student part of her basically lives on an IV drip of caffeine and half because the artist/indy stick-it-to-the-man part of her is relieved to see it’s not a Starbucks. (Call her a hipster, but she never  _really_ trusted those international chains.)

She has grand plans to stop there every day on the way to her shifts at the hospital, and those plans become  _even grander_ —shut up, her vocabulary isn’t great before she’s consumed caffeine—when she discovers the extremely attractive barista who works there.

The first day she goes to check it out, she pushes open the door, her ears met with the charming ringing of a bell that she can’t  _quite_  appreciate in her currently uncaffeinated state, and is halfway through placing her order before she looks up at the man in front of her and suddenly the only thoughts her mind is capable of are  _wow, freckles,_  and  _hair._

Apparently her mouth has stopped working too, because all of a sudden he’s giving her a half grin—which definitely doesn’t help the situation—and prompting her to finish her order, “And did you want room for cream?”

To her credit, she recovers quickly, flashing him a grin, “Yeah. That would be great, thanks!”

He seems to be the only one working and he hurries around behind the counter while she takes up a spot at the counter and tries not to be obvious about watching him.

Which means that she doesn’t miss the fact that he spills her drink the first time and nearly forgets to leave her room for cream the second. It’s endearing though, and when he finally slides it across the counter to her, she takes it with another smile, and then she’s out the door, in an effort not to be late.

She finds herself coming in a little earlier the next day so that she doesn’t have to rush out with her coffee and instead stops to sit and relax for a while, enjoying the shops charming interior…including the charming barista, whose name is Bellamy if his name tag is right.

She chats with him this time while he makes her drink. The shop is pretty empty, but whether that’s because it’s only 7 am or because they haven’t quite built up a customer base yet, she isn’t sure. She finds out that he’s doing a masters in history at the nearby university, which just somehow  _fits_ him.

While she’s telling him as much, he knocks over a stack of plastic coffee cup lids and she starts to get the feeling that, for all the charm and good looks, he’s kind of a horrible barista. Or just extremely clumsy at the least, because she can’t deny that the coffee is pretty damn good.

Either way, it’s adorable and cuts away at the intimidation of talking to this ridiculously beautiful human being.

The next day he returns the favor and asks what she’s studying.

Her response of “med student” gets her raised eyebrows and impressed “intense,” while he fumbles with the syrup bottles.

The fourth day she goes, he’s not working. She’s a little disappointed, but the cheerful looking girl with long dark hair behind the counter takes her order, and she’s almost as gorgeous as Bellamy, which is saying something. 

She also doesn’t suck nearly as much as he does at making drinks, she can’t help but notice. And because the shop is empty, as usual at this hour, Clarke brings it up for lack of a better conversation topic.

The girl’s response is that of a kid on Christmas—surprised, and then delighted—before she throws back her head to laugh, “Oh my god. You make him so nervous.”

“What?” Confused is an understatement.

“Bellamy’s an excellent barista, you just make him nervous.”

Apparently noticing that the confused look hasn’t left Clarke’s face, she goes on.

“Flirting with girls who just want to flirt? Bell’s excellent at that. But with pretty girls like you who want to have a nice conversation? He’s hopeless.”

“I’m Octavia, by the way,” she says, “sister to said horrible barista.” Clarke’s still processing when Octavia shoves her coffee at her and rushes over to help the customer who’s just walked in.

“ _Please_  keep coming back,” she calls when Clarke’s on her way out the door. “Seeing Bell flustered is one of my favorite things.”

The smile doesn’t leave Clarke’s face for at least half of her shift.

The following morning, Clarke stops short before going inside. Bellamy’s there, helping another customer. Curious, she watches for a moment; His movements behind the counter are easy, confident, even. Drastically different from the way he moves when she’s been there, watching him.

She tells herself she’s overthinking it and pushes inside. The smile he gives her when he glances up at the jingle of the door has her heart somersaulting.

They exchange hello’s and she chats with him about his sister while he makes her drink. (No spills or messes this time, she notes. Octavia must have been exaggerating. Sure, he bumped his hip into the corner of the counter when she addressed him by his name for the first time, but she doubts that’s significant.)

When her drink is in her hands, she stays for a while, sipping at it while Bellamy moves on to cutting a sheet of coffee cake into squares for the pastry display. All the while, he’s telling her about having to grow up raising Octavia after their parents death.

It’s sad, and deeply personal, and Clarke finds herself warmed that he trusts her with it. It doesn’t feel like a story he’d share with any customer who walked through the door.

When he talks about Octavia’s success in school, his entire face lights up. Even when he takes a second to bemoan the fact that she’s always staying out late and getting into trouble, the pride doesn’t leave his voice.

As he talks, an increasingly fond smile spreads across her face.

“What?” he asks, a little nervously, she thinks, when he pauses to look at her.

She smiles wider, “Nothing. You’re just a really good brother.”

He looks back down again but she can see the grin on his face as his hair falls into his eyes. He’s just gone back to cutting the cake when he jerks back and winces, dropping the knife that’d been in his hand.

“Shit,” he hisses, sticking his index finger into his mouth. When he pulls it out again, there’s still a lot of blood and she’s reaching toward him without even thinking.

“Let me see,” she says, and he hesitantly complies, placing his hand in in hers and using the other to toss the offending knife into the small sink behind him.

She lets out a slow breath as she surveys the cut. It’s fairly deep.

“Do you have a towel or something?” she asks as she lets go of his hands and moves to join him behind the counter. When she gets there, he hands her a thin towel and she takes his hand again, bringing him over to the sink to rinse the cut (which he could probably do on his own, but she’s  _worried_  alright?).

He hisses a bit when the water falls into the wound, and she looks up at him fleetingly—and tries not to notice how  _close_  they are—before murmuring a quick “sorry.” He just shakes his head, and gives her a small smile.

She shuts off the faucet and wraps his finger in the cloth, keeping pressure.

“It should be fine, I don’t think you’ll need stitches or anything. Just keep pressure on it for a while.”

“Clarke…thanks.”

She can’t resist looking up again and the softness in his eyes has the words falling from her mouth before she can think to stop them.

“So, umm, this is going to sound really stupid. But this,” her two hands are still cradling his, so she just kind of lifts them to indicate what she means, “doesn’t happen to have anything to do with the fact that I um, make you…nervous, does it?”

He opens his mouth to respond, face flushed red, but she keeps talking, her words more directed to his hand than to him.

“Because if it does, you should probably just ask me out and get it over with,” she pauses briefly her heart beating erratically, “but if I’m totally wrong, I um, I’m just gonna,” she moves to let go of his hand, but the one not claimed by hers is tilting her chin to look up at him, a grin on his face.

“Hey Clarke?”

“Yeah?” her voice is small and nearly cracks.

“You make me extremely nervous. And it’s really freaking embarrassing,” he pauses a beat, smile widening, “Do you want to go out with me?”

There’s a matching smile on her own face when she says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I lost my little sibling in IKEA and I need your help finding them”

Clarke goes to Ikea by herself. A lot. She likes to watch the people who walk through the winding displays; families with excitable children, new couples just starting their lives together, old couples, reminiscing their early days.

It’s an excellent way to combat her artist’s block: It’s hard to be around that much love and not feel  _something._

Plus, Ikea is just  _fun_. She takes her time wandering through, admiring fake living rooms and offices and bedrooms, occasionally stopping to test out a particularly comfy looking chair.

She’s been sitting in a strange neon one for about fifteen minutes—it looked like it belonged on a space ship, how could she resist?—when a heavy hand lands on her arm, “Hey, do you work here?”

She turns to face a very handsome stranger, and her first thought (after the _handsome_  bit) is  _shit, are you not supposed to sit on the couches?_  She stands quickly and clumsily, barely managing to keep her balance.

“No, I’m sorry. I—um, sorry,” she fumbles, “It won’t happen again.”

His face slides from what looks like worry to something more like confusion, “What are you–? No,  _I_ don’t work here either—what?” And she feels dumb, because yeah, duh, he’s not wearing any sort of uniform. But then, neither is she, so she’s a little more than confused.

He takes a deep breath and draws his hand across his eyes, pulling her attention to the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.

“Look, sorry, forget it” he says gruffly, and she’s still very confused. He turns away from her, but before he does completely, she hears him mutter, “I’m just trying to find my little sister.”

He’s walking away when she realizes, belatedly,  _oh, shit, he was asking for help._

“Wait!” she calls out.

He turns back, “Look, it’s fine, I—”

“What does she look like? What’s she wearing?”

He stares at her in shock for a second, like he doesn’t quite believe she wants to help.

“She’s um…” he starts, “Her name’s Octavia. She’s got long brown hair, bangs, she’s about this tall.” He pauses to hold his hand to his hip, “And she’s a hyperactive pain in my ass.”

Clarke smiles at the fondness in his voice. There’s still deep concern in his face though, so she gets down to business, “Alright, let’s split up yeah? You take that side of the store,” she gestures behind him, “and I’ll take this side. We meet back her in thirty minutes whether or not we’ve found her.”

He nods, and she thinks he looks a little relieved as he pushes a hand through his messy curls, so she gives him a quick smile and turns to her side of the store.

“Wait!”

It’s her turn to turn back around and she does, sending him a questioning look.

“Thank you.” His voice is quiet and warm, but still stress-worn.

“Let’s go find your sister,” she says, determined smile on her face.

* * *

 

Her half of Ikea happens to include the children’s section, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t know that when she’d claimed it.

She wants to be the one to find the attractive stranger’s sister. Sue her.

And finding the little one turns out to be surprisingly easy.

Clarke turns the corner, out of a room filled with only green furniture into one that’s entirely pink. Her eyes, scanning the room, land on a tiny girl nestled into a furry pink sofa, pink pillow clutched to her body, her too-long bangs falling into red-rimmed eyes. Clarke feels her heart melt a little.

She walks slowly toward the girl, coming to crouch down in front of her. Lowering to her level, the sad eyes looked up at her.

“Hi sweetie, are you lost?”

She nods a little, but recedes back into the couch and Clarke’s heart squeezes.

“Is your name Octavia?”

Another tiny nod.

Clarke gives her a grin, “You wanna know how I knew that?”

Octavia’s eyes, still a little red, widen as she nods.

“It just so happens I was just with your brother, and we’re both looking all over for you!”

“Bell?” she says, her hands loosening on the pillows.

Clarke never got the stranger’s name, so just goes with it, “Yep! My name’s Clarke, would you like to come with me to find him?”

“Okay,” she says hesitantly.

Clarke counts it a success and reaches out toward the girl, who scooches forward to allow herself to be picked up. After lifting her from the chair and onto the ground, she straightens up and feels Octavia’s little hand slip into her own. She smiles down at her and the little one returns it with an adorable smile of her own before her face falls.

“What’s wrong honey?”

“Is Bell gonna be mad at me for getting lost?” she asks, voice small, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Oh sweetheart of course not. Besides,” she says, crouching down again to tickle her a little, “ _We’re_ the one’s looking for  _him_  now. So if anyone’s lost it’s him. Right?”

Octavia giggles at that, smiling at her, “Right!”

“Right!” Clarke echoes, “Let’s go, Princess Octavia!”

When she looks down at her after a few steps, her eyes are wide.

“What’s up kiddo?” she asks.

“Bell always calls me that too.”

“What, Princess Octavia?” 

She nods.

“Well that must be because you’re sweet and pretty and kind, just like a princess, right?”

Octavia nods happily at that, pulling Clarke forward and  _geez this kid is too cute._

* * *

It takes them nearly ten minutes to make it back to where they’re supposed to meet her brother, mostly because Octavia stops every few minutes to point out any pink objects she can find.

“Clarke! Clarke, look at the elephant!” she says, tugging on her sleeve and pointing at a huge stuffed elephant.

“Wow, he sure looks soft doesn’t he?” Clarke says, humoring her. The furniture around them is starting to look familiar, and sure enough, she looks around to see Octavia’s brother—Bell?—at the end of the hall.

His back is turned to them and he’s pacing, hands in his hair again. She tries not to notice what a good sight it is and wonders briefly if she’s always been such a creep.

“Hey princess,” she says to Octavia, and when she has her attention, nods toward her brother, “Look.”

The girl’s face lights up and she’s racing off toward him before Clarke can stop her.

“Bell!”

He spins around to see her, relief obvious on his face when he stoops to scoop her up in his arms.

“O, there you are! What did I say about wandering off on your own?” Clarke can tell he’s trying to be stern, but the relieved grin on his face is hard to hide.

He settles her on his hip and it’s kind of a perfect image.

“Not ta do it,” Octavia mumbles solemnly before perking up, “But Clarke says you’re not allowed to be mad at me because  _we_  were the ones looking for  _you_.”

He laughs at that, “Well, then, if…Clarke?” he pauses for a second for confirmation and Clarke nods, grinning as well, “…says so, then I  _suppose_  you’re not in trouble this time.”

“Yay!” Octavia squeaks, and Clarke holds out a hand for her to high-five.

“Thank you so much. And sorry for being a bit of jerk earlier,” he says to her, earnest. “I’m Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” she says, shaking his outstretched hand, “But I guess you know that. And don’t worry, I’d be a little stressed too if I lost an adorable munchkin like this one.” She reaches to tickle Octavia’s stomach and the little girl giggles.

Bellamy stares at her with something like wonder, and she blushes.

“So how often do you come to the aid of separated siblings in Ikea?” he asks her, half grin on his face as he places a squirming Octavia back on her feet.

“Pretty often,” she deadpans, and because he’s still grinning at her—and god, what a smile—she goes on, “but only when the brothers are cute.”

“Yeah?” he asks, smile widening, “Well  _I_  have this tradition where I treat the pretty girls who find my sister to frozen yogurt.” He inclines his head toward the food court and his next words are a little more tentative, “If you’re interested?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she says and they look at each other with matching stupid grins until Octavia tugs at both of their hands, urging them toward the promise of fro-yo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com) if you want!


	7. The college dorm Assassins AU no one asked for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I thought you were the person in my building who died and I sent your family flowers with my condolences so… hi! Glad you’re not dead”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So I tried to write this true to the prompt. Twice. Then I realized that it wasn’t working and wasn’t fun to read. So I thought, alright, let’s drop the condolences and flowers and make it a college AU where they’re playing a game of Assassins with the people in their dorm.
> 
> If you don’t know how that works: Each person is assigned a target that they have to “kill” (in this case by hitting them with a balled up pair of socks). You inherit the target of each person you kill. Last one standing wins.
> 
> (I’ve never actually played Assassins—constant paranoia? no thanks—but I have friends who played with people in their dorms, and if that’s not perfect for fanfiction, I don’t know what is. So yeah, disclaimer: I’m pretty sure I’m bending and breaking the rules to make this work how I want.)

She’s hidden behind the half wall that doubles as counter space enclosing the café/breakroom area in the Physics and Astronomy building on campus. The microwave clock blinks 12:14 AM and save for her, the open room is completely empty. She can’t let down her guard though; Creeping throughout the building are 30 overly-competitive college students, each ravenous for victory.

But Clarke’s here to win, and as far as she’s concerned, hers is the perfect hiding place. The only way to see her is to get close enough to walk through the door or look directly down over the counter. Either way, she’ll be able to hear them coming.

…which is why she’s kind of offended when Bellamy Blake walks through the doorway without so much as a sound.

She moves to scramble up from her position on the floor as quickly as possible, because no way is shegoing out this early in the game.

Before she gets far though, he’s holding up his hands as he sinks down against the wall across for her, “No worries, I’m already dead.”

She remains poised on her toes, knees bent, trying to gauge if she should trust him. “Why are you still here then?”

“You know I live with Murphy right?”

She does. He’s the kind of awful that everyone in the building knows about, and though she hardly knows Bellamy, she’s got a lot of sympathy for anyone who has to endure Murphy on a daily basis.

So she nods, but raises an eyebrow as she sinks back down to the floor, not entirely sure what his roommate has to do with anything.

“Murphy is very…,” he considers, “enthusiastic about his one night stands.”

She cringes a little, seeing where this is going.

“Enthusiastic and  _loud_.” He rubs the back of his neck. It’s kind of endearing to see Bellamy Blake flustered. “So I’d rather put off going back as long as possible.”

“Got it, got it,” she responds quickly.

She’s all for sex positivity, but talking to Bellamy Blake—who she can admit is intimidatingly handsome—about sex isn’t necessarily within her comfort zone.

“You’re Clarke, right? Raven’s roommate?”

“That’s me.” She pushes up to peer over the counter. Finding no sign of attackers, she turns her attention back to him as he pipes up again.

“So what’s your strategy for this thing?”

She’s hesitant to answer. Her plan isn’t the flashiest, but it has a pretty good chance of getting her to the end.

So she shrugs, and opts for the truth, “Wait for the competition to thin out. No reason to be a hero and go out early.”

He nods, “Smart.”

“So how’d you get out so soon?”

He flashes her a smile, “Being a hero.”

She’s laughs then. She likes the idea of Bellamy Blake as a hero. It suits him.

He laughs too and then they sink into comfortable silence.

“How long do you think this is going to take?” he asks after a few minutes.

“Who knows. I’ve got Monroe and I can see her taking down a fair few people.”

He considers that for a second then seems to recognize the name. “Braids?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, she’s hardcore.”

Clarke hums in agreement, stretching her legs out in front of her, matching his position where his sits across from her.

They spend the next half hour trading trivial information—classes, majors, extra-curriculars—even going as far to talk exes (Lexa for her, a girl named Roma for him) before settling into their shared love for Avatar, debating the respective qualities of Aang and Korra in their quests to save the world.

It’s a strange conversation, but it’s also a strange night, and she finds herself surprisingly comfortable bantering back and forth with him.

After nearly an hour, she cuts off his frankly  _ridiculous_ argument that Kuvira is a compelling villain when she hears footsteps around the corner.

“One sec,” she mouths, looking up over the counter to see Monroe, her back facing the counter.

There’s a grin on her face when she turns back to Bellamy, holding a finger to her lips as she makes her way to the doorway, keeping low to the ground.

The assassination of Monroe is a quick thing. She hears Clarke’s shoes squeak against the floor a second too late, a pair of fluffy purple socks already colliding with her shoulder.

“Dammit,” she whispers.

“Sorry Monroe,” Clarke says, coming out to grab her socks. She does feel a little sorry; if she couldn’t win, she’d be betting on Monroe.

“It’s all good, I have a test on Monday anyway. Should probably get back to studying.” She turns to go before Clarke calls out.

“Wait! Who was your target?”

“Oh, Bellamy Blake.”

Everything kind of goes blank for a second, and then her blood boils.        

With Monroe gone, she turns slowly to where Bellamy is standing in the middle of the hallway, pair of socks in his hands.

“You.”

“Me.”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times. “This whole time.”

“This whole time. I’d heard about you and your competitive streak. Knew you’d be my main competition.”

She’d like to slap the smirk of his face. She definitely would not like to kiss him. That would be incredibly inappropriate.

A new thought thankfully cuts off that image.

“Wait, then that means—“

“That you’ve been my target since the very beginning? Yeah, that was just luck.” He’s still smirking.

“You could have just killed me and got it over with. You didn’t have to  _play_  with me,” she spits.

He has the decency to look a little sheepish.

“That wouldn’t have been nearly as fun, though.” She can almost believe that he means it, that he actually enjoyed spending the game chatting with her, but there’s no fucking way she’s falling for that again.

“You know what? I’m kind of glad you’re not dead.” She takes a step toward him and he mirrors her, closing the distance between them.

“Really.”

“Yeah. Now I get to kill you myself,” there’s a bit of a grin on her face, but if he doesn’t see the dangerous glint in her eye then he’s going to be sorely unprepared for their showdown.

(He does see it. It’s frightening and kind of hot.)

Fortunately for him, they never do get their showdown.

Bellamy sees it before Clarke does and his hand shoots to her wrist—“shit, Clarke,”—before pulling her behind him.

“What the fuck—”

The words have barely left her mouth when Bellamy is hit square in the chest with a pair of pink socks.

She’s just thinking  _Wait, I know those socks…_  when something soft bounces off the back of her head.  _Shit._

Poised at either end of the hallway are Raven—her traitorous roommate—and Wick—their RA, and, coincidentally, Raven’s boyfriend.

“Sorry guys!” Wick calls, “We’re exhausted and tired of waiting for you two to make a move.”

Clarke sputters in disbelief from behind Bellamy, hand going to his shoulder to pull herself up onto her knees, “That’s not fair! You can’t kill someone who’s not your target!”

Wick just shrugs, “RA remember? Pretty sure I get to make the rules.”

“Fuck you Wick,” comes Bellamy’s low voice. And yeah, she’s inclined to agree.

“Sorry guys,” Raven calls, not looking sorry at all, “We’ll catch you later.”

“Don’t stay in here too long, I don’t want to get fired,” Wick calls as they turn to go.

Once they’re gone, Clarke collapses against the wall. Bellamy follows suit soon after.

“Well this sucks,” he groans.

“We’ll make them regret it, don’t worry.”

He turns to her, confused.

“Next time.”

He nods, “Yeah, next time.”

“Hey,” she says, nudging his shoulder with hers, “turns out you’re not a total liar.”

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“You did go out a hero in the end,” she smiles at him, “Saved me from Raven’s shot, even if I died two seconds later.”

That gets him laughing. “Only for you, Clarke,” (she does  _not_  blush) “Can’t have people killing my biggest rival.”

“Yeah alright,” she says, grin still plastered to her face, “Let’s go, Mr. Hero.”

Before she can move, he’s pushing up from the wall and offering her his hand. “You hungry? I’m kind of feeling Denny’s.”

She lets him help her up, and if their hands stay intertwined for a moment too long, there’s no one there to notice but them. (And there’s really no denying that she’s blushing now.)

“I’d like nothing better.”

She’s going to get her revenge on him eventually, but for now, she’s hungry.

(They don’t even sign up for the next game, opting instead to make out in the conveniently empty dorm lounge.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone loves Avatar. And everyone has an opinion on which series is better. (Last Airbender is the clear winner, fight me.)
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)!


	8. You still shine brighter than anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellarke + best friends + Clarke finding out Bellamy is ticklish
> 
> Silly and context-less and written in two hours. Probably tons of typos.
> 
> Title is a slightly altered lyric from Brighter.

Clarke’s home for spring break, and instead of going somewhere sunny and warm like the rest of her classmates, she’s sprawled on the floor of her childhood bedroom, painting a scrap of paper with watercolors that are about a million years old.

When she declined Raven’s offer to join her in Florida, her roommate groaned exaggeratedly. When she explained that this is the only time she gets to see her best friend, Raven sent her off with a knowing wink that Clarke’s still trying to forget.

The aforementioned best friend is currently taking up her entire bed, laying on his back as he reads her the dumbest historical facts that he can find in the history encyclopedia he gave her for her 15thbirthday.

It’s the worst gift she’s ever received, and simultaneously one of her most prized possessions.

“Did you know that during the Middle Ages, people used spider webs to try to cure warts?”

She sets down her brush long enough to chuck a well-loved teddy bear at his head. “Bellamy, that’s not even funny, it’s just gross.”

He catches the bear easily and makes a show of snuggling with it, tossing her a smug grin. She just rolls her eyes and turns back to her paints.

“Fine,” he says after a second, “How about this one; did you know that Ancient Egyptians shaved off their eyebrows to mourn the deaths of their cats?”

She laughs.

He inhales sharply, “Oh my god, did you shave off your eyebrows when Cuddles died? Her dead cat soul is going to haunt you forever.”

Clarke reaches out to smack his foot with her paintbrush, but misjudges the distance and just ends up trailing its tip across his heel. He jerks it back quickly.

A wicked smile forms on her face.

“Bell…”

“Clarke.”

“Did you know when I used to babysit Octavia when you had work I found out the bottoms of her feet are ticklish?”

He plays it off like it’s insignificant information, eyes turning back to the book as he adjusts his foot on the bed, as if he just meant to stretch his leg, “I’ll let her know you haven’t forgotten this strange information.”

She smiles mischievously. “I don’t know how it took me this long to realize you must be ticklish too.”

Before he can respond, she’s reaching for his other foot, skimming her short nails across the sensitive skin there.

He jerks away, rolling over to look at her, murder in his eyes. “Clarke. You don’t want to start this.”

She just sighs, abandoning her paintbrush and getting up to sit next to him on the bed. He stares at her for a solid thirty seconds, like he doesn’t quite trust her, before picking up the book again. The second he opens the cover, she surges forward to dig her fingers into his sides.

A breathless yelp leaves his mouth as he tosses the book aside to shove her hands away.

He leans over her dangerously, his curls a chaotic mess, hands poised on either side of her waist. A slow smile forms on his face. “I don’t think you know what you’ve started.”

She just giggles and watches as his eyes darken for a split second before he leans down to tickle her mercilessly.

Or at least, it would be merciless. If she were ticklish.

It takes him a second to realize she’s not squirming.

“Seriously?” he asks, fingers going still.

“Suck it, Blake.” Her hands go back to his sides and he scoots away to avoid her fingers.

“I won’t be held responsible for kicking you, Griffin,” he says between laughing breaths.

In response she just moves one hand to pull two nails across the skin at the side of his neck. Instead of the anticipated hysterical laugh though, his breath comes out raggedly.

She realizes belatedly that it’s her now who’s hovering above him, one hand planted beside his head the other at his neck. His eyes are dark again and she remembers just how hard it is to convince herself she’s not in love with him.

Before she knows what she’s doing, she leans down to press her mouth to his, fire igniting on her lips where they meet his. It’s not til he starts to kiss her back that she jerks away.

He catches her hand, lacing his fingers with hers to stop her from moving any farther.

When she has the courage to look at him, his eyes are closed and his voice is quiet, “You won’t stop tickling but you decide to pull back when you’re doing something I actually like?”

She doesn’t tug her hand from his, but her voice stutters, “It’s not just—Bell, I can’t…” She pushes out an aggravated breath, free hand rubbing over her eyes. Because how does she explain that she can’t just have something casual with him? That she’s probably been in love with him since she was fifteen?

“Hey.” She feels his other hand flutter across her cheek. She opens her eyes to meet his dark ones. “It’s always been you, Clarke.”

She blinks. “Really?”

“Really,” he breathes.

“Oh. Cool.”

He laughs loudly. “Would you just kiss me again, you dork?”

“Yeah, I guess I could,” she says, smiling as she leans down again.

His hands go to her waist and the arm she’s holding herself up with nearly gives out when his tongue traces her lip. He grins into her mouth as he flips them over.

She craves more contact and he hisses as her hands find their way under his shirt to feel the warm skin there. She sighs deeply as he moves his lips to her neck. 

“When are you going back to school again?”

He laughs into her neck, “Shhhhhh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)!


	9. I'm begging you to keep on haunting me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I mistook you for my best friend and jumped on your back in public and now I’m embarrassed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like a good excuse for some context-less Halloween fun. 
> 
> Title from Haunting 'cause I'm Halsey trash.

Clarke ducks beneath a fringe of skeleton bone streamers, disentangling herself from a couple that catch on her stethoscope as she pushes into the next room, eyes scanning for her best friend.

Wells hates Halloween, so of course it’s Clarke’s favorite holiday. Still, she should have known that dragging him to a haunted house was a bad idea.

It’s pretty epic, and she’s been having an excellent time—her shrieking shouts turning to laughter with each turn of the corner—until she loses him somewhere between the vampire’s lair and a hokey, blood-drenched rendition of Sweeney Todd’s barber shop.

_Shit._

She looks around to ask anyone if they’ve seen a very scared looking batman, but the only people in sight are a sexy nurse and a shirtless guy painted green and wearing purple shorts—the hulk, she’s guessing—and they’re making out against the wall like it’s their job, so she opts to keep looking.

She winds her way through the rest of the haunted house, dodging skeletons and bats and feeling a little sorry for herself for not being able to fully appreciate the pounding adrenaline and startled screams, until she finally makes it to the last room, where she can just make out a caped figure standing by the exit.

“Finally,” she mumbles under her breath, a bit of a smile at her lips, “Scaredy-cat.”

She’s making to walk over to him when she decides she deserves to get  _some_  fun out of this.

As quietly as she can, she creeps up behind him. And she knows she’s gonna feel a little guilty for scaring him afterward, but for now the wicked grin on her face eggs her on.

When she’s just a couple feet behind him, she leaps up to jump on his back without a sound, arms banding around his neck and legs catching around his waist.

Instead of a terrified yell though, all she gets is a sigh and a shake of the head.

Which is, admittedly, a little disappointing.

His hands, more callused than she remembers, come up under her bare knees to keep her from falling as he shoulders open the door and carries her outside. And since she only persuaded him to come by promising they’d before it got dark, the afternoon light is blinding.

She squeezes her eyes shut and buries her face in his neck, which might be why it takes her a second to realize that the person who’s carrying her  _isn’t actually Wells._

When she pulls back a little, it’s to notice that his hair is messy and hanging down to his ears rather than cropped short and the skin peeking out between the collar of his costume and his curls is a deep tan, instead of brown.

Whoever it is that’s carrying her rolls his shoulders a bit before speaking, “I’m glad you had a good time, O, but I’ve been waiting for like half an hour. I’m pretty sure that lady in the creepy spider costume thought I was hanging around to ask her out.” He shudders a bit and she feels it in her ribs.

She finds her voice, but she’s still too surprised to come up with anything other than, “You’re not Wells.”

The man stiffens beneath her and looks at her over his shoulder. She catches sight of a thick layer of freckles and a strong jaw.  _Definitely not Wells._ And while she’s worried about where her friend actually is and the fact that she  _just jumped on some random guy’s back_ , it’s hard not to notice that her stranger is very attractive.

“And you’re not my sister.”

He puts her down slowly, releasing her legs as she unravels her arms from around his neck, dropping awkwardly to the ground and readjusting her wrinkled lab coat.

“I’m so sorry. I was looking for my friend. He, um,” She struggles to recover from her embarrassment and form coherent sentences. “He gets scared easily so I wanted to find him before he got too freaked out. You guys are, ah…both wearing capes,” she finishes weakly.

Now that they’re face to face, she can tell that he’s not, in fact, dressed up as batman, but rather as some kind of Roman soldier, with fake metal plating and a cape that’s deep red, rather than the black one that Wells is wearing.

“And you thought that jumping on his back would be a good way to make sure your friend wasn’t ‘ _too freaked out’_?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

Clarke gives him a half grin, “I never said I was a  _good_  friend,” she pauses, then goes for flirty, because he’s  _hot_ alright? “It was kind of a letdown that you didn’t scream or anything.”

She kind of expects him to yell at her, or at least be annoyed and brush her off, but instead he smiles and lifts an eyebrow in challenge, “Oh, was it now? Should I head back in there so we can do it over?”

“Eh, the effect is kind of ruined now,” she deadpans, giving a dejected shrug while she tries not to grin. 

He’s cute  _and_  charming and it’s kind of working for her.

“Come on, I’m a pretty good actor,” he says, voice teasingly earnest, “Do you want high or low in terms of scream pitch?”

She’s laughing too much to respond.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll improvise,” he says. And then she realizes he’s  _actually_  making toward the door.

“No! Wait!” she calls, fighting off the laughter as she catches his arm to pull him back. When he turns back to her she makes her eyes go wide in mock-horror, “The creepy spider lady will think you’re going back for her.”

There’s a solid two seconds of silence before he throws his head back in laughter. It’s a good look for him. Not that she really thinks anything would be a  _bad_  look for him. She’s laughing too, but not so much that she can’t appreciate how ridiculously handsome he is.

When they’ve both recovered somewhat, he sticks out a hand, “Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” she says, shaking.

“Zombie doctor?” he asks, gesturing to her costume.

“Yep,” she pauses to pick at the fake dried blood at the corner of her mouth, “It’s only creative ‘til you find out I’m actually a med student, so really it’s just lazy.”

He laughs again, warm and amused.

She studies him for a second until he gives her a questioning look.

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re Rory Williams or just a Roman soldier.”

He shakes his head, amused, “Nah, no Doctor Who references for me. Roman captain actually.”

Her confusion must show on her face.

“You can tell by the cape,” he shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. It’s kind of adorable. “The more vibrant red is only used for officers…and I’m going to stop talking before you think I’m any more of a geek than you already do.”

In response, she just grins, “So. You’re missing a sister, I’m missing a best friend…want to look for them together?”

He considers for about half a second, “You know? I’d like nothing better.”

He offers her is arm with a crooked smile and she takes it.

“The zombie doctor and the centurion,” she says, grinning up at him, “off to save the world, or something.”

His responding laugh is bright, “Yeah. Or something.”

Clarke  _really_ loves Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the next chapter for part 2!
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr?](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)


	10. Haunting Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of previous chapter. Bellamy's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: Flirty friendship and Bellamy being rlly bad at reading signals.

Of all the things Bellamy expected to happen to him at a haunted house, getting jumped by a pretty blonde girl dressed as a zombie doctor wasn’t one of them.

Losing his sister, on the other hand, was kind of expected.

He turns to walk back toward the door he and Clarke have just come out of—and tries not to think about the smooth skin of her legs when he carried her through—but the aforementioned zombie doctor tugs at his arm, pulling him around the building instead.

“Where are we going, doc?” he asks her, nodding toward the exit, “The door’s this way.”

She looks up at him, “Here’s the thing. Your sister and my friend, they’re not going anywhere. And they’ve got phones, right?”

He nods, a little confused, “Right…”

“So…” she starts, hesitant, “How would you feel about going through from the beginning and looking for them on the way? I didn’t get to enjoy it the first time through.” Her grin is a little wild and he can’t help smiling back.

He didn’t really get to enjoy it either, but that had more to do with suspecting Octavia only wanted to come so she could run off somewhere and make out with her boyfriend. So of  _course_ he wants to go again with the gorgeous girl who’s somehow still hanging around.

And because he can’t help it, he teases, “I don’t know if I want to walk back through a terrifying haunted house with the random girl who just jumped me in that  _very same haunted house_.”

She just shrugs, nonplussed, before pulling her arm from his to walk back toward the entrance. “Cool, I’ll go by myself then.”

He laughs, jogging a couple steps to catch up, and she tosses him grin when he’s beside her again.

* * *

Bellamy’s can’t lie, he kind of interpreted her invitation as flirtation—she’s gorgeous and witty as hell. How is he not supposed to be attracted to that?—but it turns out she just  _really_  loves haunted houses.

Which becomes obvious between the fact that she’s told him as much about five times before they’re even halfway through and the way her screams turn to laughter with every terrifying turn. He likes haunted houses too, but while he’s still recovering from the latest frights, she’s already giddy and smiling.

She also squeezes his arm every once in a while and lets him take her hand as they push through a forest of hanging “snakes” though, so he’s definitely not complaining.

They wander across Octavia and Lincoln, who thankfully  _aren’t_  completely wound up in each other, although the state of O’s hair doesn’t do much to convince him that they weren’t making out against a wall at some point.

Clarke and O bond over their medical themed costumes, which, really, isn’t helping his whole don’t-fall-for-the-pretty-blonde-girl-you-met-five-minutes-ago thing.

The four of them trek through the rest of the house, and it’s pretty great, but Bellamy can see the concern growing in Clarke’s eyes and fidgeting hands when they’re almost to the end and still haven’t found her friend.

Then they’re finally back in the last room and she nudges his shoulder, pointing to the door where she’d jumped on his back not half an hour ago, “Ha! See, I’m not completely insane.”

The guy she’s pointing to is, in fact, wearing a cape that, he can admit, looks a lot like his in this light. Clarke’s grinning when he acquiesces, but she’s also clearly relieved and he’s trying very hard not to be taken with this girl who’s caring and carefree all at once.

She goes over to collect her friend—Wells, she says his name is—and when she hugs him rather than jumping on his back, she sends Bellamy a pointed look over his shoulder that says,  _see, not a horrible friend._

He grins back at her, and shrugs a little,  _could have fooled me,_  which gets him a dramatic eye roll.

* * *

Outside, they mill around a bit; Wells makes his introductions to Octavia and her boyfriend, and Clarke and Lincoln get to talking about art and the courses they’ve taken at the local community college. Octavia listens in, tucked under Lincoln’s green arm.

Wells steps up beside Bellamy, “I hear you’re the one she assaulted.”

He huffs a short laugh, “Worse things have happened.”

He’s about a thousand percent sure that Wells sees right through him, so naturally, he deflects, “She’s pretty good with people, huh?” He nods to where she’s making fast friends.

Wells shrugs, “She’s gonna be a pediatrician, she kind of has to be like that.”

He digests this information. It makes sense; explains why she’s so easy to be around even though he’s only known her for an hour.

The others join them eventually and Clarke bumps her hip against his, “Hey. You hungry?”

“What, are you going to invite the strangers you just met to dinner?”

Confusion passes her face for a split second, which. Weird. But then she’s grinning. “Yep. I make a point to get dinner with all the nerds and artists I run into.”

“Pretty sure you’re the bigger nerd here, miss med-student.”

She shoves his shoulder, and Octavia looks at Bellamy like his the biggest loser on the planet. Which is also weird. He feels like he’s missing something.

* * *

They do end up getting dinner, the five of them piling into a booth at IHOP, reciting their orders for a very bored looking waitress. Clarke interrogates him about his life while spearing potatoes off of Wells’ plate and draping her stethoscope around Octavia’s neck with a grin.

She and Wells get along with his family—including Lincoln, by extension—so  _seamlessly_  and he can’t stop smiling at her.

She’s overly excited to find that he’s the manager of a bookstore downtown and when she asks if she can visit him there sometime, he says yes. Because, obviously.

He just doesn’t expect her to  _actually show up_.

When he hears her voice in the tiny shop on Tuesday he kind of thinks he’s losing it. Between grad school and working two jobs, it wouldn’t really be a surprise.

“Did you know that your bibles are directly across the aisle from your romance novels? It’s kind of hysterical.”

He pulls his head up from the inventory list he’s looking over at the counter, eyes searching for the owner of the disembodied voice, “Sorry?”

Clarke steps out from behind a shelf of mystery novels, flipping through the book in her hands, and it takes him a second to reconcile that she’s  _here_ and, you know, not dressed like a zombie.

Instead, her hair falls in soft waves around her face and she’s wearing a skirt and oversized t-shirt that aren’t even necessarily that nice, but he’s still struck by her.

She looks up after a second, finally noticing his silence and stunned expression, and her face falls, “What? Oh, crap, should I not have come? I swear I’m not a stalker, I just finished my shift and I was nearby…”

“No!” he interrupts, “No, I just didn’t recognize you without, without all the blood.” He gestures weakly towards his own face.

“Oh, right,” she smiles at him, tentative, “Yeah, here I am.”

“Here you are,” he echoes. “Yeah, uh,” he shakes his head after a second and addresses her earlier comment, “Murphy set it up that way. He though it was a riot, so I’ll be sure to bolster his ego and tell him you appreciated it.”

She laughs a little, then flicks her gaze down to the paper he’s pouring over, “Interesting stuff?”

“Oh, thrilling. My actual favorite thing.”

She huffs an amused laugh, but her face shifts to concern a second later.

“Shit, what time is it?” she asks, a little frantic, craning her neck to see his watch. He twists his wrist so she can read it easier and tries not to notice how close she is.

“You just got here.” He tries not to be too disappointed, plastering a teasing grin on his face, “Somewhere else to be?”

“I’ve um,” she turns back to the shelves to put the book back, “actually been sitting back here reading for a while. Lost track of time.” She’s a little sheepish and he tries not to find it adorable. “And then it took me a while to work up the courage to come talk to you so, you know.”

He feels his heart flip in his chest…before she punctuates her words with an exaggerated eye roll and flashes him a grin.

_She’s teasing. Get your shit together._

“I do really have to go, though,” she says, “But, hey, do you want to grab food sometime?”

He’s still a little distracted, “What? Oh, yeah! O and I are cooking at my place tonight, if you want to come hang out.”

He thinks he must be imagining the way her smile dims for a second, because then she’s pulling out her phone to program in his address and number and she’s out the door seconds later with a flashing grin.

* * *

They hang out that night, as planned, and it’s  _easy_  and just kind of great.

The end of the night finds them sprawled across his couch, Clarke’s legs in his lap while she argues with him about the historical accuracy of Rory’s centurion costume.

“It’s a  _costume._  I’m sure it’s accurate enough, grow up,” she says, laughing after his impassioned speech.

“I’d leave that the experts,” he responds, pompous, “Only one of us here is going to grad school for a history degree.”

She glares at him halfheartedly, digging her foot into his side.

He doesn’t have a ton of friends, and if he can’t date her, he’s more than a little okay with this.

* * *

She walks into the bookstore a couple days later with a determined look on her face. He greets her as she comes up to the counter, and plants her hands on it before speaking. 

“Do you want to get coffee with me?” It comes out more like a statement than a question.

“Uh, yeah, I think O’s free later,” he says, finishing up the order form he’s working on, “Although she may be doing something with Linc…”

He trails off when he looks up. Her head’s down on the counter, blonde hair splayed out over her arms. 

“How many times do I have to ask you out before you realize I’m asking you out?” she grumbles out.

_What?_  “What?”

“Look,” she lifts her head, “I love hanging out with O. She’s great. But if you’re using her as an excuse to not hang out with me on your own, I’d kind of rather you just tell me you’re not interested.”

He blinks. “You don’t like me…like that,” he says, sounding more like a nervous teenager than he’s comfortable with.

“Pretty sure I wouldn’t be asking you out if that was the case.” She pushes herself off the counter, not meeting his eyes, “Just…forget it.”

She turns to go but he shoots out a hand to catch her arm, “Wells said you’re friendly with everyone, I just assumed…”

“I don’t ask people out just to be  _friendly_ Bellamy.”

“ _I didn’t know you were asking me out.”_

“Well I  _am._  Or,  _was,_ ” she runs a hand through her hair, shakes his hand from her wrist, “Whatever, just…whatever.”

She’s halfway to the door before he pulls his head out of his ass and comes out from behind the counter.

“Clarke,” He says, stepping in front of her to block her way to the door.

“Bellamy,” she responds, mocking.

“Shut up. Will you go out with me?”

She glares at him for a second before it dissolves into an acquiescing smile, muttering something like “you idiot,” under her breath before pushing up on her toes to press her lips to his, her hand settling behind his neck. He catches her waist, pulling her closer.

“I’m sorry for ruining your two attempts at asking me out,” he says against her lips.

“Three.”

He pulls back, “What?”

“Three attempts. I asked you to dinner the first time we met.”

He looks at her incredulously, “We were  _literally_  surrounded by other people, how on earth was I supposed to know that?”

“Because I didn’t ask them?”

“You also didn’t say, ‘Hey, geeky Roman soldier guy, do you want to go on a date with me?’”

She pushes against his chest, grinning, “Yeah, because you would have said, ‘Roman  _captain_  guy, you mean?’” She imitates his voice, badly, “The deeper red is only for officers, you know.”

“Okay, alright,” he says, pausing briefly to kiss her again, because he  _can_ , “I get it, I’m a nerd. But you’re the one who’s going out with me.”

She grins blindingly, “Damn right I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My local B&N actually has its bibles set up directly across the aisle from their romance novels. I, too, find it hysterical.
> 
> Come hang out w/ me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)?


	11. Capture this moment (like a photograph)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy finds Clarke’s purse on the subway, and, in going through it to find out who it belongs to, ends up falling for her before they meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday fic for [commanderbellarke](http://www.commanderbellarke.tumblr.com) on tumblr.
> 
> This was supposed to be short and sweet I swear. Dammit. Instead it’s kinda long and definitely overly wordy. 
> 
> Once again featuring MuseumEmployee!Bellamy, but this time with a dash of Photographer!Clarke. (Disclaimer: I have no idea how working at a museum or running a photography showcase works. So sorry.)

Taking the train fucking  _sucks._

He has to wake up earlier than he would if he had a car and then walk six blocks to the station, just to be jammed into a metro car that’s at least ten people past its capacity. Plus there’s the weird shuffle at each stop of people exiting and entering that, more often than not, leaves him even more squished than before.

For the most part, he knows how to handle it; He blocks it all out with a book, makes a point not to meet anyone’s eyes, and does his best to not be in the way. Survival skills.

And they usually work, getting him to his stop unscathed. But for no explicable reason, today  _sucks_.

That’s not entirely true. It sucks for a couple explicable reasons. One; rent is due soon, which, yeah, self-explanatory. And two; he’s working ridiculous hours at the museum this week.

He loves the museum, really. Working there is kind of a dream. But he’s on front desk duty all week while Maya’s on vacation, and dealing with people in a constant stream, for  _hours_ , is not his favorite thing. He’d rather be assisting the archivists, which is his usual gig.

It’s great. He gets to work hands on with what he loves, and he gets to be trained by the best in the business, fueling his hope that he’ll actually be able to do this professionally someday. And get  _paid_  for it _._

(Each of the handful of times that he’s gushed about this to Octavia has resulted in the shake of her head and a muttered “God, what a nerd.”)

But today he’s not feeling so hopeful, and he nearly overslept, so his usual ‘keep-yourself-sane’ rules for the train go out the metaphorical window as he looks around, glaring openly at anyone and anything.

It’s probably for that reason alone that he notices the backpack. His eyes, continuing their disparaging route around the train, latch onto it when the doors open three stops before his. It sits on the floor between two empty seats and it’s black, with doodles of silver sharpie around the edges.

He wouldn’t normally spare a second look, except he knows he saw people sitting there two stops ago. Girls, he thinks. He’s not sure. He was too busy glaring. But there were definitely  _people_  there. 

And they left their bag. On the subway. Which means if he doesn’t do anything about it, the chance that they’ll get it back is a fraction so small he can’t properly articulate it.

He may be grumpy and exhausted, but he’s not an awful human being. So, during the next shuffle, he moves over to one of the open seats next to the bag. He doesn’t think anyone will accuse him of stealing—most passengers seem to adopt survival rules similar to his, keeping to themselves, and the majority of those that don’t are probably high, so he figures he’s good.

The doors ping open at his stop, and he slings the bag over his shoulder. Very casually. Just in case.

* * *

He means to look through it for contact information during a quiet moment at work, but that moment never really comes, with visitors and school groups keeping him on his toes all damn day.

The ride home, to the apartment he shares with his sister, isn’t nearly as bad as the morning commute, but he doesn’t open the bag then either. Because theft on the subway is definitely a thing.

“It could have been a bomb!” is Octavia’s first reaction.

“This isn’t an action/thriller O.” He says, shucking off his shoes and dropping both bags—his own and the not-bomb—on their table.

“It  _could_  have been. People do crazy things.”

“Who would take the time to doodle on their bomb before making the drop?”

She considers for a second. “Very thorough terrorists.”

“It hasn’t blown up yet, so clearly they’re not  _that_  thorough.”

“Unless they  _meant_  for someone to take it home. In which case they’re cackling victoriously right now,” she volleys back, playful, before coming over to stand next to him, gesturing toward the bag.

“Time to snoop?” she asks, eyes comically bright.

“We’re just looking enough to find out who it belongs to,” he says, as much to convince himself as his her.

He’d hate to imagine someone digging through  _his_  belongings. It seems only right to extend the same courtesy to whatever stranger this bag belongs to.

“Shit, and I have to leave anyway. Study date. Don’t get blown up.”

With a wave and a quick hug, she’s off, leaving Bellamy alone with the mysterious bag.

* * *

Whoever owns said bag apparently rides some strange edge between meticulously organized and completely jumbled, and it kind of makes his head hurt.

There are pens tucked neatly away in a pouch and two notebooks that, from the looks of them, are either brand new or handled very carefully. But the bottom of the bag is littered with flyers and crumpled papers and he’s pretty sure he sees a stray candy wrapper here and there.

What makes his eyes go wide, though, are the two cameras nestled in the corner of the bag, each in their own case.

He reaches for the one in a white case first, pulling it out to discover it’s of those currently-popular polaroid cameras. The kind that O’s been itching to buy for a while.

It’s the other that catches him by surprise.

He doesn’t know much about cameras, but he knows that this one must be expensive. It’s black, with a huge lens, and covered in knobs and buttons. Someone, somewhere, has got to be freaking out over losing it. He turns it over in his hands, but there’s no sign of contact information, which makes him a little twitchy. (Putting your name and number on something this expensive just seems like a smart move?)

He turns back to the first camera, prying it from its case, looking for identification. When he finally manages to pull it out though, it’s only for a dozen or so small, developed pictures to fall out, scattering across the floor.

And it’s not like he’s  _trying_  to invade their privacy, but he has to pick them up right? So it’s only natural that, when he does, he can’t help but notice the pretty blonde girl common to many of them.

In one, she’s at the beach, with her arms draped around a grinning brunette, laughing. There are a couple others that are just of her, sometimes making silly faces, other times just looking…radiant.

The majority of the photos, though, aren’t of people at all, but of exquisite flowers, or buildings with delicate architecture. The last one he picks up, rescuing it from near the leg of his kitchen table, is strikingly familiar.

It’s a museum.  _His_ museum. The impressionist wing in particular.

So she’s local. That’s something. And she’s been to the museum, so he can check their records, see if she’s a member.

With a jolt of hope, he pulls out the notebooks, hoping for any source of identification.

…and is pretty relieved to find that the inside cover of the first one reads “Property of Clarke Griffin.”

There’s no phone number, or even an email for god sakes, but it’s  _something._

He picks up his phone and dials a familiar number.

His friend answers on the second ring with a stoic, “Miller.”

“Hey, are you still at work?”

“Yeah, leaving in ten. Why?”

“I need you to look up a girl for me in the visitor records.”

The silence on the other end of the call is loaded. “You know, I expect this from Jasper, but not really from you.”

He rolls his eyes, “Not like  _that,_  Nate. Jesus. I found a girl’s backpack on the train and she has a picture of the museum, so I was hoping her email or something would be in the records.”

“Oh. You should have started with that.” A pause, “You know that totally could have been a bomb.”

“So I’ve heard,” Bellamy mutters.

“What’s the name?”

“Clarke Griffin.”

“I thought you said it was a girl?” Miller’s voice is confused.

“Clarke with and ‘e’. She’s um,” he glances down again at the pictures, trying not to grin at the faces she’s pulling in a few of them, “She’s definitely a girl.”

Miller’s only response is a hum.

And then, “Oh, damn.”

“What?”

“She’s not on the visitor list, but, you know that photography showcase we’re renting the auditorium to this weekend?”

This information clicks into place. “She’s in it?”

“She’s  _running_ it. But I think her stuff’s gonna be on display as well, from the looks of the program.”

“Oh. Shit. I have her camera.” Which is something he assumes you need if you’re in a photography showcase. “We’ve gotta have her contact information, right?”

“No number that I can find, but there is an email address.”

Bellamy scribbles it down, hastily thanks Miller, and hopes that if he emails her now, she’ll see it before the showcase.

Which is two days from now. He’s losing hope already.

* * *

Stalking her iPod, which he finds in the front pouch of the backpack—on his search for a phone number, thank you very much—just kind of…happens.

It falls out when he’s rummaging through and the screen blinks on to Green Day’s “Holiday”. Intrigued, he idly scrolls through her artist list, which is…eclectic.

It’s a decent amount of pop, with some alternative rock mixed in, but there’s also Enya, a lot of Disney soundtracks, various albums of house music, an assortment of classical music, and the soundtrack from some video game that he’s never heard of. He stops on that one on impulse, grabs his headphones, pops them in, and presses play.

He didn’t know there existed a genre that’s basically…like, whatever type of music the Game of Thrones opening theme is, combined with dubstep, but apparently it’s a thing, and finds himself liking it a lot.

And because stereotypes are hard  _not_  to buy into, it’s kind of a surprise. A photographer named Clarke, who runs showcases and listens to dubstep. His mouth forms a smile of its own accord.

At some point, his eyes drift closed, head lolling back against the couch.

He’s awoken by Octavia’s finger prodding his arm. When he blearily opens his eyes, she’s looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“Is that hers?”

He rubs a hand across his eyes, pulls the headphones from his ears, “How do you it’s a her?”

“Pictures are on the table still.”

He glances over to where she’s looking, a slow smile twitching at his lips again.

Octavia lets out a laughing breath. “Don’t get in too deep big brother.”

She heads to her room and he’s left grasping for her meaning, his sleep addled brain offering no suggestions as he pulls himself off the couch to collapse into an  _actual_  bed.

* * *

He wakes up to an email from Clarke Griffin.

//

_cgriffin@gmail.com RE: Found Backpack_

Hi Bellamy,

Oh my god. You’re a life saver. Thank you  _so_ much. Luckily I have most everything I need on my laptop, because I’m out of town now, and barely going to be back in time for the show tomorrow. If it’s not too much trouble, could you return it to me then?

Yours,  
Clarke Griffin

P.S. Do you make a habit of rescuing stranger’s backpacks on the subway? It could have been a bomb or something, you know.

//

The grin doesn’t leave his face as he types up a reply.

//

_bellblake@gmail.com RE: Found Backpack_

Hi Clarke,

You’re exactly the third person to warn me of the dangers of strange backpacks on trains. I argued that terrorists don’t typically take the time to decorate their explosives in such a detailed fashion, but clearly I’m overruled in this matter.

Maybe next time I’ll just leave it there, expensive cameras be damned.

-Bellamy

P.S. See you on Saturday. No trouble at all.

//

By the time he gets off work, she’s responded:

//

_cgriffin@gmail.com RE: Found Backpack_

Okay, alright. I get it, you’re my savior. As a reward, you can, I don’t know, snoop through my bag? That’s all I have to offer.

Except I did also add you to the list for the showcase. With a plus one, if you wanted to bring somebody.

Thanks again,  
Clarke

//

//

_bellblake@gmail.com RE: Found Backpack_

Clarke,

Wow, thanks. I’ll see if my sister wants to come.

Pertaining to the snooping: See, now that you’ve  _offered_ , it’s impossible for me not to admit that I’ve already done it–the snooping I mean. In my defense, the majority of it was done in the hopes of finding your contact information. But that probably has nothing to do with me listening to your iPod last night…

Forgive me,  
Bellamy

P.S. What kind of game is Skyworld? And why does it have such great music? (Again…sorry.)

//

“Are you emailing her again?”

His head jerks up at his sister’s voice.

“Maybe. What’s it to you?”

“The girl has a showcase tomorrow. Don’t you think she’s a little busy?”

“Not too busy to respond to me. Twice,” he grins, smug.

“God, don’t get cocky.”

“Oh hey,” he turns to look at her where she’s rummaging through the fridge, “You have plans tomorrow night?”

She doesn’t. And she agrees to come with him like it’s some big struggle to attend (what he’s sure will be) an excellent show. 

She also turns out to be right about Clarke being busy.

Or at least, he hopes she’s right and Clarke hasn’t stopped responding for some other reason. Like, for example, because he confessed to invading her personal belongings.

* * *

“You’re actually nervous,” Octavia crows, slipping her arm through his, “Oh my god, this is great.”

They’re both dressed in semi-formal attire, as the program suggested; Bellamy in slacks and a button down with Clarke’s backpack slung over his shoulder, Octavia in a dark blue dress that swings around her knees.

“Not nervous,” he grumbles at her, pulling her over to the next set of photos.

They’re fairly early, and the hall isn’t very full yet, but they haven’t seen Clarke. And he’s  _not_  nervous. He just…doesn’t want to be caught off guard when he finds her.

He’s about to turn to look for her again when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Bellamy?”

He catches sight of her hair first, gold and falling in soft waves, and then he’s seeing her, properly, for the first time, and it probably shouldn’t feel like a momentous occasion, but it kind of does.

Her blue eyes are lined in black, with a flick at each corner, and she wearing a knee length black dress with a pattern of mesh and opaque fabric at the top. The effect is hind of overwhelming. Or maybe it’s just her _._

She’s grinning at him now, which isn’t helping.

“Unless you’re not Bellamy,” she teases, “and you stole my bag from him. In which case I’ll probably have to defend his honor  _and_ my own.”

He laughs, shaking off his daze, “Sorry, yeah. That’s me. No need to defend my honor. Although I appreciate the offer.”

“You’ll have to excuse my brother,” Octavia chimes in, “He’s a little…”

“—bit of a saint for putting up with his bratty sister,” He cuts in, with a look he knows she’ll understand.

Octavia just rolls her eyes, and then looks pointedly toward another part of the room, “Oh. Look. I really wanted to see those pictures of,” she squints, “…butterflies? I’ll catch you later.”

He wants to groan, because there’s no way Clarke didn’t see straight through that, but when he looks back to her, she’s laughing a little.

“She seems great,” she says, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear.

“She is,” he agrees, “When she’s not being a pain. Which is like, eighty percent of the time.”

She just smiles at him for a second, which he definitely doesn’t mind, but then he remembers why he’s here.

“Oh, right. Here’s your backpack.”

She takes it from him, tossing it over her own shoulder.

“Thank you. So much. I freaked when I thought I lost this. The notebooks had all my planning stuff for this thing,” she pauses, grins at him as she shrugs, then deadpans, “So this is kind of useless to me now.”

“Well it seems like you did alright without them,” he says, trying not to notice when she blushes. “Wait, are you saying I should have  _kept_  the ridiculously expensive camera? Cause I could be okay with that.”

That gets him a laugh, and he can’t help but add, “Also, your organizational skills are questionable at best.”

She places a mock-offended hand over her chest, laughter still bubbling from her lips. “Excuse you, my organizational skills are fine,” she says, gesturing at the showcase around them as proof. Which, yeah. “It’s not my fault I don’t regularly clean out my bag in anticipation of strangers rummaging through it.”

He rubs the back of his neck, “Right. I um—sorry about that.”

“Bellamy,” she says, her hand flitting to touch the hand that hangs at his side, “I’m kidding. Really, it’s fine.”

Which is a relief. Octavia was right after all.

Just then, a girl in intimidating braids appears at Clarke’s side, whispering urgently in her ear. Her eyes narrow briefly before she nods in understanding, and he gets the feeling that seeing Clarke in action would be a beauty to behold.

She looks at him with something like regret, and he tries not to read into it.

“Duty calls,” she says, jerking her toward the girl.

“Of course,” he grins, “Showcases don’t run themselves. Not that I would know.”

She’s smiling as she turns away, but then seems to remember something.

“Oh, wait!”

She stops to the shrug the bag from her shoulder and pull out the polaroid camera, and then she’s at his side—and very  _close_ —holding the camera out in front of them.

Not sure what to do, he leans into her a little and grins. If his hand finds its way to her waist, it’s completely of its own accord.

There’s a flash and then she’s pulling away from him again.

“Come find me before you leave, so I can say bye,” she calls over her shoulder, following the very stressed looking girl, who’s now waving her hands animatedly.

* * *

He ends up staying for the whole thing. Partly because there’s just a lot of great work to see and partly because every time his eyes find Clarke, she’s busy talking to someone. And it would be rude to interrupt. Definitely.

Octavia teases him a couple times, but seems to be genuinely enjoying the show, and they pass the time pointing out their favorites

When it’s getting late, he finally finds Clarke in a secluded corner, surveying the room.

“Happy with the turn out, boss?”

She turns to him, smiling softly. “Yeah, actually,” she sighs, “It’s my first time doing something like this, so I’m surprised it didn’t crash and burn.”

“It’s incredible.”

Her eyes are turned down to her shoes, but he catches a hint of a blush at her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she says, looking back up at him, before nodding to the backpack at her feet. “Seriously. Most people wouldn’t do what you did.”

He just shrugs, “It wasn’t a big deal, really. And it turned out pretty well for me.”

“Did it now?” she grins.

He belatedly realizes that he’s kind of staring at her. “Uh, yeah,” he coughs, looking away, “Like I said, this is pretty incredible.”

She just laughs, “Are you two heading out soon?”

“Yeah. Unless…you need help cleaning up or something?”

“No, no,” she waves her hands, “That’s sweet, but you’re guests, and you’ve already done enough for me. Really.”

“If you insist. Thanks for the invitation.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

He wants to brush the stray piece of hair from her face, or stay and talk to her for hours. He wants to do a lot of things, but she’s already scanning room, like she’s itching to get back to work, and he doesn’t want to keep her, so he turns to go.

At the last second though, she catches his hand and tugs him around to press her lips to his cheek.

“Thanks again, Bellamy.”

He stands there a second, a little dumbfounded, his skin burning from her kiss. And it’s not until she’s disappeared into the crowd that he realizes she’s pressed something into the palm of his hand.

When he finally gets his wits about him, he looks down to see that it’s the picture they’d taken hours earlier; his hand at her waist, her head almost leaning on his shoulder, both of them looking at the camera with wide grins.

On the white strip below the picture, she’s drawn a little coffee cup, steam curling from the rim, with a question mark and a smiley face beside it. Below, there’s a phone number, signed with a cursive ‘C.G.’

He’s still smiling down at it when Octavia comes to find him, and he decides that, all in all, maybe taking the train only sucks, like, ninety percent of the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Clarke’s dress is [here.](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/302796774920338136/)
> 
> Also, All Is Hell That Ends Well is actually the only song from the Skyworld album that’s dubstep-y. The others are still v good. Blackheart in particular. I’ve never actually played the game, though. Let me know if you have.
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr?](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)


	12. Tastes Like Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Clarke and Bell are baking something and he accidentally like flours her or something and then there’s a full on cutesy kitchen battle and such.” 
> 
> Featuring: Denial of feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this. I hope you like it! :)

“Only you would wait ‘til the day before for something like this,” Clarke groans, up to her elbows in baking ingredients.

“That’s not true. Everyone procrastinates. There’s no way I’m the only one.”

“ _Fine_. What I shouldhave said is that it’s entirely predictable that you’d wait ‘til the last minute to do this.”

“Much better,” Bellamy says, grinning cheekily, swiping a sugar cover finger across her nose before she has the chance to move away.

“Eugh,” she cringes, wiping it off with a sour expression.

She saves the retaliation for later though, and reaches up into the cabinet for a measuring cup, momentarily stricken by how well she knows this kitchen, despite the fact that she doesn’t actually live here.

Granted, she lives across the hall, and she’s over here quite a lot because…well, she’s not exactly sure why.

She and Bellamy have more of an antagonistic relationship than a friendly one; exchanging more snarky comments than they do compliments–or, whatever kind of comments people who are friends exchange.

His sister is cool though, the smartest high school age kid she’s ever met, and she practically lives at Bellamy’s apartment since their mom is hardly ever home.

Which is why Bellamy’s been roped into making cupcakes for her homeroom potluck.

Technically, Octavia should be making them herself, but she has dance practice all week for an upcoming recital, and Bellamy’s always been a softie in terms of letting his sister rope him into things.

So when Clarke rapped on his door earlier that evening, craving a break from studying and the solitary of her apartment, he slung the door open for her without a second glance, grumbling over his shoulder that she was welcome to come in, but he didn’t have time to entertain her today.

Which of course got him a response of, “you never entertain me anyway,” before she pestered him into telling her what had him so grumpy.

And because Clarke likes baking, and because she’s bored as hell, she’s now taken over the project, finding him a much better recipe (honestly, who uses old cook book recipes when you have  _the internet?_ ) and making him do all the hard labor. Which there really isn’t much of, really. It’s cupcakes.

Still, he makes a face at her when she hands him the bowl of frosting ingredients to mix. Which is rude. She pretty sure she still has a couple sugar granules on her nose.

“Anything for my liege,” he says, sarcastic, sticking his tongue out at her and still managing to look ridiculously hot.

She can say that without being into him, or even being friends with him, because attractive is just a thing that Bellamy Blake  _is._  Refusal to admit it would be counterproductive, and probably an indicator that she  _is_  into him. Which she’s not, so.

“Shut up,” she tosses back, “And pass me the flour.”

The bag appears in front of her a second later. Except it doesn’t appear so much as it  _explodes_.

The distance he’d tossed it was short, but it was open—the idiot—and it takes her a stunned moment to realize she’s now completely covered in white.

He looks apologetic for about half a second before he breaks down into laughter, and an indignant cry rises to her lips.

“Sorry, it’s just, you look so–”

His eyes go wide as her fingers curl around the sack of flour.

“Clarke, come on, it was an accident.”

He’s still grinning as she takes a step forward, which causes him—satisfyingly—to cringe, raising his hands to protect is face.

Which is fine with her. She takes one final step and pushes up on her toes to pour the entirety of the bag down over his head.

“Now we’re even,” she says, bright and triumphant, dropping the empty bag on the floor, a ghost of a grin at the corner of her mouth.

He recovers slowly, flour falling from his hair as he shakes his head, and more flour falling from his long eyelashes as he opens his eyes to look at her. Which, for the record, is not fair at all.

“Oh it’s on, Griffin,” he growls, lunging for the sugar.

“No!” she shrieks, shielding herself with the cupcake pan, “Nothing is  _on_ , Bell—we’re  _even!”_ She reaches for the carton of eggs on the counter behind her as subtly as she can.

“I. did. not. pour. an. entire. bag,” Bellamy says, punctuating each word with a flick of brown sugar, “of. flour. on. your. head!”

His voice is serious, but there’s a playful glint in his eye, “So, no, we’re not even.”

He reaches for the extendable faucet head at the exact moment she brings an egg down into his hair.

It’s silent for a split second before the kitchen breaks into chaos.

She reaches for the faucet as well, and gets a hold of it, eventually, to spray him in the face, but not before he’s completely drenched her hair.

Then he’s grabbing the bowl of batter, so of course she has to abandon the sink and go after him because, “Bellamy, we just made that! No—stop!”

She makes a grab for it, but he pulls it away, lifting it above his head. Not to be deterred, she stalks forward, forcing him to move backward, holding the bowl just out of her reach.

Frustrated, she jumps a little, hoping to catch the edge of the bowl. But it’s not quite high enough, and when she comes down, it’s to fall directly into Bellamy’s chest, who’s now completely backed up against the counter.

She stumbles a little after the impact, and his free hand comes to steady her at her waist.

They’re both breathing heavily and she can feel his breath on her nose. They’re much closer than she intended and she can see every one of his damn eyelashes, and every freckle on his stupid, attractive face.

The moment stretches on. Like they’re both frozen and more than a little bit shocked.

And then, without meaning to, almost on impulse, she leans forward the tiniest bit to nip at his bottom lip.

It’s not until after she’s done it that she realizes how much she  _wanted_ to. Kiss Bellamy Blake.

Which is…new. Or maybe she’s just oblivious. But she doesn’t really have the time to analyze, because the boy she newly wants to kiss is currently staring down at her with dark, hooded eyes. Which is also new. And not totally undesirable.

Then the bowl is gone from his hands, which are now grasping her waist, and his lips are urgent against hers. She’s pressing forward, arms winding around his neck, and when he licks into her mouth she loses track of everything except the feeling of his warm skin beneath her fingertips.

When they pull apart, foreheads touching and breathing heavily again, she’s lost for words.

Bellamy, apparently, is not.

“I totally knew you liked me.”

“Oh my god, you so did not,” she cries, slapping his chest and taking a step back, a little grateful for the break in the heady atmosphere.

But he’s smiling, and she is too, because she can’t  _not._

A second later, his gaze drops to his flour covered hands, and she sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“Yeah, uh, you’re right about that, actually.” He looks nervous, or embarrassed, and she wants to kiss it off his face, “But you do, then? Like me, I mean.”

Then she’s smiling again, wider this time, as she steps back to him. She curls her fingers into his still dripping hair, pulling him a couple inches down to her, before whispering, “You’re alright,” against his lips.

* * *

Octavia’s reaction to finding them making out on the couch an hour later consists of: “Dear god, finally,” and “I don’t know if I can take your weird sexual-tension-cupcakes to school. That’s a little creepy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr?](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)


	13. You should be alone with me (And never get too lonely)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CC, aka mcspookyville on tumblr, asked for some unestablished-relationship/college-halloween-party* goodness for her birthday, so here we are. :)
> 
> *served with bonus teeth-rotting fluff and approximately 0 plot, be warned.
> 
> Title from Be Alone // Paramore

Clarke doesn’t plan to go to the party as a princess. Hell, she doesn’t plan to go to the party  _at all_ , but Raven caches in on one of her please-do-this-thing-because-you-love-me’s, which Clarke belatedly realizes she should set an actual  _limit_  on at some point.

So here she is, having tossed on her old prom dress and the tiara she’s had for forever, if only because her mother gave it to her years ago and would probably feel heinously betrayed if she’d left it at home while she was at college.

Raven, dressed, she claims, as an arrogant engineer—“Nothing scarier than damn engineers and their damn egos,”—leaves Clarke less than ten minutes in when she sees Wick trying to build a pyramid of empty cans and bottles, apparently realizing she doesn’t actually need her roommate if she can just yell at him all night.

Clarke’s long since tied the long skirt of her dress up at her hip, favoring the ability to actually  _move_ over style. Extremely necessary, seeing as the apartment is more crowded than she’s ever seen it. But for all that it’s swarming with people, it’s still not the worst kind of party. Attendees of Jas and Monty’s parties tend to err on the drunk-and-stoned-but-generally-harmless side. 

It’s still kind of a lot, though, especially with the added Halloween excitement.

She’s a good sport for a while: hangs out here and there, has a drink, beats a couple guys at DDR—which she suspects is only because they’re not exactly well coordinated with the amount of alcohol they’ve consumed in the past hours.

When she’s tired of being jostled by shoulders and hips every time she wants to move more than five inches, she shuffles her way toward Monty’s room, seeking some quiet while Raven gets her weird flirting on.

A voice speaks up behind her as soon as the door closes.

“Fitting.”

She turns—already fairly sure who the snark belongs to—to find Bellamy Blake sitting against the end of the bed, lacking a costume as far as she can tell, game cube controller in hand.

“I know what you’re insinuating,” she says, cutting off his next words, “and I’ve decided you have no room to talk. What are you dressed as, a sullen history undergrad?”

Bellamy is someone she’s known only tangentially until recently. He’s Octavia’s brother, who lives in the apartment next door to hers and Raven’s, and he’d been around a lot when she first moved in—generally keeping to himself and embracing the whole handsome and mysterious vibe. She still claims she didn’t see him smile until three months in.

He squints at her now with a half-hearted glare. “Cute. Octavia forced me to come half an hour before this thing started,” he says, “That’s not exactly enough time to put together a costume.”

Once she discovered that they’re both partial to the same deadpan sarcasm, they’d became something akin to friends, migrating toward each other at gatherings of mutual acquaintances, picking at each other with petty insults until one of them inevitably broke down in laughter.

A bout of arguments about whether the Hobbit  _really_ needed three movies—which ended with them realizing their friends have abandoned them in the theater lobby—leads to them conversing, surprisingly pleasantly, about their life plans and goals after college on the three block trek back to the apartment building.

That doesn’t mean they don’t still pick at each other.

“Please,” she scoffs, gesturing down at her dress, “Try ten minutes.”

He just raises his eyebrows, and she tosses her hair faux-haughtily, “Raven decided she wanted to come get her flirt on with Wick. And I, being an excellent friend, put together a fairly okay costume in time to support my stubbornly love struck roommate.”

“Okay, I get it. You’re awesome.”

“As long as we’re in agreement,” she returns, settling down beside him on the floor.

“No fair that you always look like a princess, though,” he says, flicking at a curl of hair next to her face, her favorite teasing grin on his face.

She can’t decide if she should blush or glare, so she settles for swatting his hand away, “What are you playing?”

“Mario party.”

“By yourself? You know that screams ‘loner’ right?”

“Miller was here before, but he left me to go find Monty. You gonna play or what?”

“Hell yeah,” she grins, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet up underneath her before taking the second controller from his hand. She tries not to notice how their fingers brush. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Bring it on Griffin.”

She’s known him for half a year now, and she still can’t quite describe the way she feels entirely at ease with him, except maybe when he smiles at her outright, like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen. That makes her feel a little queesy, and overly hopeful.

But then, when she takes to prodding his side and blowing obnoxiously into his ear during the mini games and a flush blooms under his freckles, she thinks maybe she’s not the only one.

She forgets all over again when he shoves her in retaliation, large hand spanning the side of her waist, fingers just skimming the exposed skin of her back.

.

.

.

It’s well past midnight when Raven pokes her head into the room to ask if she’s ready to go.

Clarke blinks blearily, sitting up from where she’s managed to fall asleep slouched against Bellamy’s side. The air in the room is cool compared to the warmth of his skin and he groans a little at her movement.

“Be out in a sec,” she says to Raven, who grins at her like she’s gonna give her shit for days.

“You should probably get going too,” she says once Raven’s gone, “Way past your bedtime.”

He sticks his tongue out at her sleepily and it’s impossible not to find it adorable. “It’s not my fault I have class at 8 every day.”

“It kind of is. Who takes comparative ancient literature by  _choice_? C’mon,” she says, standing up and offering him a hand.

He rolls his eyes before letting her help him up, “Maybe people who are  _interested_  in comparative ancient literature?”

“Just you then,” she chirps brightly, which gets her a second eye roll and another hair flick.

“Alright, Raven’s gonna get antsy if I don’t come out soon. Thanks for letting me hide back here with you,” She says, leaning over to kiss his cheek as he finishes yawning widely, turning back toward her…

…where her lips meet the side of his mouth in a kind of awkward half-kiss.

It would be comical, the way his face floods red, if she couldn’t already feel her own cheeks burn as she flinches back a little.

“Sorry,” he manages, voice strained.

“Don’t be,” she says quickly, “it’s my bad.”

She watches his sleep heavy eyes blink slowly before she breaks her gaze from his, under the guise of rummaging through her bag for her phone.

When he speaks again it’s slow and careful, “I don’t know why the hell I’m saying this, but I’m actually not sorry at all.”

She turns back to him slowly, not sure she understands, “You’re not.”

“No, not really,” he says.

He looks at her, searching, as she stares and runs a hand through his hair, “Is that okay?”

A slow grin fills her face, “Only if you actually plan on asking me out.”

“By ‘out’ do you mean sitting at my place and watching all three Hobbit movies?”

She grins at him, slipping a hand into his hair the way she’s wanted to for weeks now, “I would accept nothing less nerdy.”

When she kisses him this time, they get it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)?


	14. There's a drumming noise inside my head (It starts when you're around)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pointless fluffy coffee shop AU, featuring musician!Clarke and barista!Bellamy.

Clarke shrugs the guitar case from her shoulder, leaning it against the wall while she grabs her favorite stool from the bar, the familiar sounds of the coffee shop washing over her.

“Hey Clarke.”

She looks up with easy grin at her favorite devastatingly handsome barista, who’s smiling down at her from behind the cappuccino machine.

“Hey Bell. How’s tricks?”

He looks like he’s going to answer, but then he frowns a little. “You know that’s how people ask prostitutes how business is going, right?”

She just waggles her eyebrows at him and he rolls his eyes, leaning across the counter to push her shoulder, lightly. “Don’t you have songs to play or something?”

She sticks out her tongue, pushing back from the bar, bringing the stool with her.

“Make me a chai later?” she asks over her shoulder and he shoots her a quick thumbs up.

She gets set up in the corner, perching on top of the stool and tuning her guitar, careful not to let her eyes stray to the freckled, curly haired barista across the room. Mostly because she doesn’t have a good excuse for staring at her purely platonic acquaintance. And if he catches her he’ll insinuate she’s checking him out—which she  _is_ , to be fair—and then of course she’d blush and tell him to fuck off. And never hear the end of it.

It may have happened before. A couple of times.

There’s a fairly decent turn out for her set. A few people drop dollar bills into her cup and one girl requests an original song she’d played the week before, so she’s feeling pretty good about it by the end.

She plays there every Thursday evening, per her agreement with Lincoln, the owner, and it comforts her to know that she brings at least a couple additional patrons to the cozy café. Being a starving artist sucks, but at least she’s not a starving artist who’s relying on pity gigs.

So she plays at the coffee shop on Thursday, works her job at the used bookstore the rest of the week, and sells her art at street fairs on the weekend.

She doesn’t love it, but it’s what she’s got until she hears back from the graphic design jobs she’s been applying too.

And it certainly doesn’t hurt that Bellamy always works Thursdays.

“Nice set today, rock star,” he says, sliding a mug toward her when she takes a seat at the bar after she’s wrapped up.

She rolls her eyes, “Thanks mom.”

He grins at her, an ironic, boyish thing, before growing serious, “You know I’m serious right? You’re pretty great.”

She can feel the heat of the blush spreading across her cheeks. “Thanks,” she mumbles into her tea, hiding the traitorous smile on her lips. Which is dumb. Bellamy is always all casual affection and teasing and she should be used to it by now, instead of blushing at his compliments, no matter how sincere.

“Any word on the job hunt?” 

She shakes her head, sipping her latte, which has a faint taste of…“Cinnamon?”

He inclines his head in confirmation as he pours heated milk into another cup before calling out the order.

“Spoiling me, Blake?” she asks, teasing, after a customer comes to collect their drink.

He shrugs, “It might have been disgusting. You’re the only one I have to test it on.”

She flicks a straw at him.

“How about you then? Any professorial positions open up with shining ‘Giant-Nerd Wanted’ signs?”

“You’d be the first to know if I had,” he says, offhand, with another eye roll.

“I would?” she asks, teasing, “Didn’t know we were that close.”

She’s a little surprised to see a flush on  _his_  face now, but maybe she’s imagining it, because he plays it off as he prepares another drink, “Sorry, should have said you’ll be the first pain in my ass indie songwriter to know.”

He also walks her home most Thursday nights, because his shift only ends an hour after her set and they’re both walking the same direction anyway.

Or that’s what she tells herself. Because the alternative is that he just wants to spend more time with her and she can’t let herself grasp at that false hope.

.

.

.

“How long are you going to make him squirm?” Raven asks her two days later when she mentions Bellamy’s name in passing. (Maybe more than just in passing; Raven has called her out on her slips into sentences starting with ‘Bellamy said…’ at least five times in the past week.)

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“I want it noted that I’m refraining from making a Harry Potter joke right now.”

“Noted,” her roommate says with a roll of her eyes. “How long?” she repeats.

“I’m not making him squirm. Bellamy doesn’t squirm. Not around me anyway,” she smacks Raven’s arm, “You’re gonna make me sound mopey and desperate, stop it.”

She hears her mumble something about a ‘pair of idiots,’ before speaking at normal, human levels, “You know I know his sister right?”

“You mentioned it yeah,” she says.

“Well I may have forgotten to mention that she told me he always shifts his schedule so he can work Thursday evenings.”

.

.

.

“Do you work Thursdays just so you can see me?” she demands after she finishes her set the next week.

He doesn’t even look phased, although he does cough a little, “’Course. Everything revolves around you.”

He pauses, and flushes a little, before mumbling out, “And who else is going to walk you home?”

She honestly can’t help but laugh.

He looks a little hurt, “It’s  _dark_ , Clarke.”

Standing up from her stool, she leans over the counter to grasp the string of his apron, pulling him forward to press her lips to his cheek while he gapes a little.

“No witty response?” she asks, sitting back down.

He remains quiet, not meeting her eyes, brows furrowed as he pumps flavored syrup into a cup.

“Bellamy Blake, speechless. Stop the presses.”

He finally looks up at her at that, eyes mischievous, “There’s a policy about making out with customers while I’m on the clock, so.”

It’s her turn to gape, and he smirks a little.

“Well,” she says, prim, after a moment, “Wouldn’t want you to lose your job.”

“Gracious of you.”

Their walk home takes a little longer than usual that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)?


End file.
